Five Holidays Dean Never Screwed Up
by hiding duh
Summary: Sam/Dean. It's an evil turkey.


**Title**: Five Holidays Dean Never Screwed Up  
**Fandom**: Supernatural  
**Characters**: slightly Sam/Dean.  
**For**: Deirdre

i

"It's an evil turkey," he says. "I promise."

Sammy seems unconvinced.

"But it's a girl turkey, Dean," he mumbles, hopping around the beast with practiced ease. "What if it has baby turkeys waiting for her to come home?"

Dean rubs the bridge of his nose, then lowers his father's rifle. "Look, Sammy, it's tradition." The turkey pecks at his boot. "And you can't just _not_ have turkey and gravy and mashed potatoes." The woods darken, so he hoists the rifle over his shoulder and adds, "Okay?"

"_Baby turkeys_, Dean."

Dean goes to bed with a stomach full of burnt macaroni and cheese.

It becomes a tradition.

ii

"Hey, does it bother you?"

Dean wipes the grime off his face. "What?"

"That, while everybody else is hunting for chocolate eggs, we're hunting for zombies?"

With a grin, Dean dusts off his jeans. "What, did you seriously want Dad to hide some eggs in the cemetery or something?"

Sam stuffs his homework next to his crossbow, and shrugs. "No, but... whatever. Let's just go home."

If Sam finds a tiny chocolate egg in his cereal the next morning, Dean is totally sure he has no idea how it got there.

iii

"Son of a bitch!"

John clears his throat.

Unrepentant, Dean looks at his hands, scowling at the cards. "You're cheating. I know you're cheating. In the house of _God_, on God's _birthday_, you're cheating."

Sam hides a grin, licking crumbs off his fingers. "You gonna raise or what?"

Dean considers him for a moment, then chucks the cards to the floor. 

"Hey, Dad, can't we just go out and shoot 'em?"

Amused, John folds his newspaper, then checks his watch. "Not for another four hours."

So, for four hours, they sit in a church basement while Sam idly hangs ornaments off Dean's slumped shoulders.

Not throttling Sam with the nearest string of garland is the best present Dean's ever given him.

iv

It shouldn't take him this long to figure out he's stuck in a loop.

But once he does, he waits for Sam to fall asleep, then speeds to the closest gas station, buys a bag of Doritos, a camera, and a sharpie.

On the next loop-over, he shaves off Sam's eyebrows and braids his stupid girly hair.

On loop forty-seven, or forty-eight, Sam wakes up to find Dean peeling out of a drive-thru, wearing nothing but a mustard stain.

"Dean! Pants!"

But Dean can only focus on the road ahead, muttering, "Obviously, I gotta shoot a groundhog."

Sam deadpans, "Obviously."

At the end of loop fifty-nine, when he's killed something resembling a groundhog, Dean returns to the car.

"Why does my forehead say 'Dean Wuz Here'?" Sam asks calmly, flipping through a leather-bound journal.

"I spelled it right the first eleven times," Dean offers, then tosses the carcass at Sam. "Burn it."

Frowning, Sam asks no questions.

Which is why he gets to keep his eyebrows for the next three loops.

v

Predictably, the bars are full.

Dean buys a drink for some weepy girl, one elbow propped on the counter, the other resting in a sling. "What kind of a bastard would dump a pretty girl like you on Valentine's Day?"

"_I know_," she whines, hiccuping into her beer. Her skirt rides up. "He told me he needed space. Space. He lives, like, fifty miles away!" She sniffles, pointing her chin at the sling. "What happened to you?"

A warm body slides onto the barstool next to Dean. 

Dean doesn't turn around, flashing a charming grin. "Blindsided by the ghost of a giant mutated lemur."

The girl squints, nervously tearing at a napkin. "Right. What?"

A cold beer appears out of nowhere.

Dean frowns. "Well. Apparently, they're pretty fast."

"...sure, yeah."

When she skitters away, clutching her purse and tripping over tiles, Dean turns his head slightly. "Did you mind-mojo her into running away?"

"Yes," drawls Sam, nursing his beer. " 'Cause clearly, the lemur line never fails."

So, for the third year in a row, Dean sits with his brother until closing time, playing hangman on napkins, stealing shot glasses, and carving _Winchester_ into the fine oak bar.

He's hoping it's become a tradition.


End file.
